Nifty-fine Bottles of Weer on the Ball
by pari106
Summary: Drunk Logan! He was so great in "Hello, Goodbye" I had to commemmorate (I can't spell that word) the scene with a fic. Short and stupid...but maybe funny. Read and let me know what you think!


Nifty-Fine Bottles of Weer on the Ball  
by pari106  
  
http://www.geocities.com/pari106/index.html ; pari106@hotmail.com ; Disclaimer: Just   
the story's mine; Rating: PG ; Summary: During the end of "Hello, Goodbye"; Logan's   
POV.  
  
A/N: Hey! I finally got to do something with "Drunk Logan"! Not dark/angsty/drunk   
Logan…who we all know and love… But funny/drunk Logan…which is a start :p   
Please feedback! (I hope this doesn't suck).  
  
  
  
It's been a big news day.  
  
News about the transgenics has leaked out… News about Max and Alec…  
  
Funny how the former is the most threatening development…but the latter is all you can   
think about.  
  
Then again, everything's funny to you right now. Alcohol can do that. And now you see   
why your uncle was never a drinking man. Because a drunk Cale is not a pretty picture.   
It's expected, of course, for a Cale to keep a well-stocked, expensive liquor cabinet in his   
house. You're just not supposed to empty the damned thing all in one sitting.  
  
Like you're about to do.  
  
It isn't the smartest method of handling pain… But, really, there's always so much of it   
in your life to handle. It's not like you won't get the chance to do better the next time   
everything goes wrong...  
  
Yeah, you're a little down on yourself right now, too.  
  
But you're trying to pull yourself back up. It's amazing how far a few bottles of Scotch   
will go toward accomplishing that.  
  
It's amazing how fast the liquor works, too. An hour ago, you could have sung a show   
tune, if you'd been so inclined. Now…  
  
"Fifty-nine bottles of weer on the ball…" No, no; that's not right. "Nifty-fine bottles…"   
Damn!  
  
It's amazing what a few drinks can do to the passage of time. You've been sitting here   
all day, but you could swear it's only been an hour. It's dark now… There aren't any   
lights on, but you don't care.  
  
You've gone over everysinglemoment that has passed since Max came back…with   
*him*. Looking for signs; looking for reasons. Some reason, *any* reason for why Max   
left you for a man she's sworn, repeatedly, to hate. Any reason besides the virus, which   
you can't control, and therefore, will not acknowledge. This isn't about the truth; the   
glass in your hand isn't about truth. It's about pity. Anger and loathing and self-derision.  
  
And you can't very well deride yourself for something you had no part in. You can't be   
angry at something you couldn't prevent; cannot change. You tried that when you first   
lost your ability to walk. You loved Max; you *love* her… And the temptation to slip   
into that familiar abyss once more is strong, but resistible. You don't love anything   
*that* much.  
  
No, this isn't about the truth.  
  
And after there's enough alcohol in your blood… You can convince yourself that it's   
about something entirely different. Like…  
  
Your hair.  
  
Yes… Now that you think about it, it had to have been your hair.   
  
After all, Max had loved you when you'd had short hair. Asha had loved you even   
*with* the long hair. But, then, that Asha's always been a bit strange.   
  
It's not that you never considered the importance of your choice in hairstyle… I mean,   
remember Keri Russell? You don't, so let's move on… Anyhow, it's only hair. Right?   
It isn't your fault if Max left you for something petty like hair.  
  
And it's not like you never tried to do anything with the hair. Remember the "wet" look?   
Yeah, during that whole mermaid thing? You even found a route for Max and crew into   
White's place that would take them through water. That way she could see Alec's hair   
wet and realize that you looked so much better with wet hair…  
  
Then they took the roof.  
  
You should have thought of that. Maybe you were drunk then, too.  
  
Are you drunk now?  
  
"Fifty-bree thottles of beer…" Oh, yeah, still drunk.  
  
And hearing things, apparently. It sounds like someone's in your living room. Looks   
like it, too. That looks like…Max?  
  
Suddenly you're standing, talking… What are you saying? No, don't bring up Alec.   
Don't bring up…  
  
Fine. You're asking about Alec.  
  
What do you really hope to accomplish? You don't really want to hear the… The truth.   
You can see it there in her eyes. Hurt, fear, followed by guilt. Funny…you'd think the   
guilt would come first.  
  
And it hurts. Why does it hurt so bad? After all that Scotch…  
  
"…It's over. Get used to it."  
  
Damn. And your hair looked *really* good tonight. 


End file.
